joshsaltzman Presents: Camp

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When I was nineteen years old I got a job at an overnight camp. On my arrival to my picturesque woodland home for the summer, to my horror, I soon realized that not only were the other staff far better looking than me, but they had all been going to that camp since they were kids and were as thick as thieves.

I was chubby, not big, but my body was globular and there was no shirt baggy enough to conceal my curves. All the other guys were sculpted, their chests and stomachs were built from lego blocks. If there was an erotic camp calendar it would be eleven fireman and one human size ziplock bag of mash potatoes.

So there I was, a misshapen blob of dough, stuck in the forest for an entire summer with a clan of Adonis' who worked, played and ate shirtless. By the first week I had made a few friends, everyone one was really nice, but I knew what they were thinking. They were thinking "Look, the new kid is one of those losers who swims with his shirt on". And they were right to think that, people who swim with their shirts on are losers. Yes, there are special cases; you were pushed in the water with your shirt on, or you were training to be a life guard and one of the exercises is having to dive wearing clothes, but other than that, there is no excuse, except of course shame.

One day while everyone else tanned and flirted on the dock, I sat alone writing hate mail in the sand to myself. Then I noticed him.

By the water lounging on a picnic bench with three of the stunning babes, was a guy twice as big as me. He was shirtless and laughing. His giggles were not only auditory, but you could see them ripple down through his large bosoms, disappear into his bathing suit and re-appear through his legs, which could be confused for albino seals.

At first I was relieved, "I'm not the fattest guy here," an overweight individual's favorite epiphany. Then relief turned to anger, "What the hell? I'm not the fattest guy here, but I'm still alone, while chubs here lives it up with the ladies," I tried to take off my shirt, but still, I couldn't. What did this guy have that I didn't, besides sixty pounds?

After the big guy caught my stares he excused himself from the beach hunnies and marched over. He sat beside me...

"I'm Reggie," He said.

I introduced myself and we delved into the same conversation I'd been having since I got there.

"So you're new?"


"You like it so far?"

"Great, it's beautiful here, and everyone is really nice."

"You got good campers?"

"Yeah, they're a handful and one of them shits himself every night, but yeah good."

Throughout the whole conversation my eyes kept falling on his man boobs, I couldn't help but think mine must have looked like midgets compared to his. I also wondered if he noticed me checking out his rack, and wondered if he felt like every woman who has ever talked to a man before.

Finally, Reggie asked...

"So, what's with the shirt?"

I squirmed to answer, but he just laughed.

"Rhetorical question. Believe me, I know"

I laughed through my blush.

Then he said "You know, no one gives two shits about your man boobs. They give two shits that your trying to hide them."

I agreed. I mean I already knew this, no one doesn't know this, but like so many things, putting it into action is the hard part.

"Take off your shirt"


"Come on, take it off right now, I'm going to change your life."

The idea of my life changing, being free of the shackles of the shirt of shame was something I was interested in for sure, but I couldn't go full throttle. Maybe if Reggie coached me, maybe I could do it in steps. Start tomorrow with a cut-off sleeves, then after a few days graduate to just wearing a bib...Yes, at this point wearing 'just a bib' seemed like a better option to having my man boobs out in full.

Then Reggie, to my astonishment, jersyed me. He grabbed my shirt, and bolted. Everyone on the docks took notice. They all turned, I was sure they were staring at me, at my chest. The only other person to see my naked chest at this point was my shower faucet.

I had two options. The first was to create a makeshift shirt out of sand as quickly as possible. The second was to get my shirt back. As it was a particularly dry day, the sand wouldn't stick, so, I went with the latter.

I began to chase Reggie. I could feel my man boobs bob up and then fall, gravitating towards my arm pits, then circle back up to the sky; like pistons they fell into this rhythm. As I ran I tried to squeeze my arms closer together to conceal my boobage, but this only made me run in an even funnier way, like a topless woman trying to keep her cleavage up. Reggie ran through heavily populated areas of the camp waving my shirt like a flag of triumph. My mind changed gears from self-consciences to get my god damn shirt back. I ran, not realizing I was no longer caring about my flopping fun bags. I chased Reggie passed the mess hall, where campers and staff cheered the chase. Then Reggie B-lined it back to the beach. The scene must have looked like the opening credits to Baywatch if it starred Kevin Smith and Seth Rogen.

Reggie collapsed to the sand back where we had started. When I caught up I was so out of breath that I fell beside him panting. The crowds cheered, nay, went nuts! I felt liberated and free. My nipples squinting as they finally looked upon on the sun for the first time.

Reggie tossed my shirt back, I used it to wipe my sweaty brow and then tossed it aside as I would never need it ever again.

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